


this race is a prophecy

by callunavulgari



Series: Holiday Writing Challenge '12 [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You had turned all of your concentration onto your studies, because people didn’t become presidents without being accepted into colleges like Princeton or Yale, Ivy Leagues that only accepted the best. So you would become the best, because you wanted to change the world. You wanted to make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this race is a prophecy

**Author's Note:**

> Day 15 of the Holiday Writing Challenge on tumblr [over here](http://giraffe-tier.tumblr.com/post/35469673249/winter-drawing-writing-challenge). Prompt was 'winter hats and mittens'. Basically I just wanted to write about Kevin Tran. Yeeeep. Also, listen to [Paganini's 24th Caprice on cello](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lgAurilSDXQ) because it is beautiful. Also, [this video](http://youtu.be/_HpbDSyktvQ) is both what made me write this and where the title is from.

When you were young you had thought that, for you, the world was limitless. To you, the world was vast and it was all yours. With enough effort, you could rule the world—you could change things. You had been six when you told your parents that you would become president. They had laughed at you, patted you on the back, but you’d seen the gleam of pride in their eyes—could feel how much your mother loved you when she hugged you.  
  
Your mother was always fierce, but you’d never quite known the extent of it. Not the way you do now.  
  
Your father had loved you fiercely, his love like a hurricane—ferocious, terrible, and short-lived. He had always loved you, but you hadn’t known that at the time. After that, it was just you and your mother—your mother who loved you more than you could ever know, your mother who wanted the world for you.  
  
You fell in love with the cello when you were seven—with the way the strings left indents on the pads of your fingers when you pressed down, the bow gliding across, whisper sweet. Your mother had bought it for you before you could ask, her smile sweet when she gave it to you for your birthday.  
  
“I always wanted to play an instrument when I was young,” she’d told you, watching as you tentatively stroke the bow across the strings for the first time. You both winced at the sound it had produced, but she’d grinned at you, and patted you on the head—saying, “You’ll get better,” with such confidence that you instantly believed her.  
  
You’d gotten better.  
  
You had turned all of your concentration onto your studies, because people didn’t become presidents without being accepted into colleges like Princeton or Yale, Ivy Leagues that only accepted the best. So you would become the best, because you wanted to change the world. You wanted to make it better.  
  
You meet Channing in Orchestra. She’s nice to you in the ways that most people aren’t, speaking to you candidly from the first moment you meet. She finds you there after school and tells you to try doing Paganini's 24th Caprice for the audition, that if you practice, there’s no way you won’t win. You protest, of course—it’s out of your league, it’s normally played on the violin, they won’t be looking for something like that. In response, she rolls her eyes and shows you Yo Yo Ma’s version on youtube, smirking when your eyes droop with the pleasure of just listening.  
  
She isn’t your girlfriend at first. She’s your best friend, the person who keeps you on track—the one who puts you back together when you work yourself up too much—stressing yourself out about school and the future and everything in between.  
  
The first time you kiss her, you’re both doing the shopping for your mother. Your mother is sick that week—feverish, with a cough that makes your own throat twinge with sympathy, so you go to get her some soup and whatever else you need that week. Channing comes with you, a droopy hat with pom-poms perched atop her head. You tease her about it, but really, you love to tug on the ends of it, if just to make her swat at you.

She kisses you next to the avocados, her lips sweet and slightly sticky from the lip gloss she applied an hour ago.  
  
You fall in love slowly, because if there’s anything in your life that deserves savoring, it’s this. It’s the way that she laughs with you, her face wrinkling up the way it does whenever she’s really truly happy. You’ve heard other people call her ugly when she does that—whispering to each other that it makes her look fat.  
  
You think that it makes her look like the most beautiful person in the world.  
  
You never get the chance to have sex. Neither of you are particularly religious, so there’s nothing stopping you. You just never really get around to anything beyond teenage fumbling.  
  
After the college acceptance letters, you’d both agreed, curled up on the rug in front of the fire. You hooked your hands together and when yours got sweaty, she just bit at your shoulder playfully and clenched hers tighter.  
  
When you’re chosen, you’re thankful that hers is the voice in your ear when lightning snaps and crackles its way up your spine—her voice when you find yourself in your mom’s car, just driving, no idea where you’re going.  
  
You listen to her voice, and you drive.  
  
(You’re going to change the world.)


End file.
